


The Geneva Affair

by JJK



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Airport AU, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Slow Build, implied courferre, lots of one sided pining, sharing a hotel room, stranded travellers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-24
Updated: 2015-12-24
Packaged: 2018-05-08 20:05:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5511317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JJK/pseuds/JJK
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>It wasn’t odd that Grantaire hadn’t corrected him; explaining that they weren't in fact a couple, but a pair of stranded travellers sharing the last hotel room in the city was just unnecessary information. Why then, had Enjolras felt happy that Grantaire didn’t immediately shoot the idea down?</i>
</p><p>Unexpected snowfall has ground Geneva to a halt. All flights are either delayed or cancelled and hotel rooms are in short supply. Enjolras and Grantaire find themselves stranded and sharing the last hotel room in the city; conflicting ideologies, chemistry and chaos ensue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Geneva Affair

**Author's Note:**

> A massive thank you to [Kim](http://combeferree.tumblr.com/) for cheerleading this fic. Without her encouragement it would have died as a half finished drabble in my drafts folder a year ago.

Snow flurried outside; a swirling mess of white clumps that obscured Grantaire’s view. His head was pressed against the window of the coach, as it had been for the last 6 hours. Ordinarily the vibrations from the wheels would have given him a headache; ordinarily they would have been moving. He spared a glance at his phone to check the time and watched as the clock changed from 17:43 to 18:44. They’d managed to travel a grand total of 32km in the last 8 hours.

Before them the snow covered road wound round the mountainside illuminated by car brake lights. Someone people had abandoned their cars and were busy throwing snow balls at each other whilst the traffic sat stationary. About half an hour ago collective group, from about ten different cars, had mounted an expedition to see if there was a hold up ahead, but they’d come back shrugging.

There didn’t appear to be any specific hold up, nothing other than the thick layer of snow on the road and resulting gridlock from everyone driving painstakingly slowly. Every forty minutes or so they would roll forwards about a kilometre or two (at one point they’d made a huge leap and driven through two towns, they’d almost been lulled into believing the jam was over), and they'd then stop and sit still for another hour.

Grantaire had long ago missed his flight. He swiped his phone unlocked and absently checked the flight details on his phone. It had been delayed, and delayed, but he’d never harboured much hope of catching it. _Boarding._ The airline app told him. Well that was that. Perhaps there would be space on the later flight.

He glanced at the queue of cars and let out a snort of derision. Fat chance of that.

Settling to get more comfortable in his seat he closed his eyes and prepared to fall asleep. Again.

At least he was on a coach. He cracked and eye and peered at the queue for the on-board chemical toilet, it stretched into the aisle, now four people long. He felt somewhat sorry for all those people squished into cars.

=

Enjolras raced from the train to the airport. Flakes of falling snow settled into his hair as he ran and puddles from the slush on the ground splashed up the backs of his legs. His face was flushed pink from both the cold and the exertion. When he finally reached the airport, he took a breath, his heart hammering and his breathing ragged, and stepped through the double doors.

Inside, the airport was chaos.

Crowds of people were clamouring at every available desk whilst other despondent groups were huddled with their suitcase along the walls and clumped around pillars.

Enjolras took a moment to take stock, blinking at the chaos and setting his jaw. Snow fell every year; he didn’t understand why it caused such chaos when it did. Places like _Geneva_ should be able to cope with a little snowfall.

He marched towards the large information screen to find details on his flight. When he’d last checked on the train it had a 20 minute delay, hopefully it wouldn’t have increased too much. He scanned the board and swore so loudly the woman next to him jumped.

“Sorry.” he said shortly, still staring at the board in shock. Cancelled? It couldn’t be cancelled. He needed to be in Paris, yesterday. In fact he never should have left in the first place; this whole trip had been a complete waste of time. He was seething.

He collapsed the handle on his Samsonite case and marched off down the terminal in search of his airline’s information desk. He made it all the way to one end without finding it, and was increasingly furious when he found himself marching back in the other direction. When he finally found it, at the other end of the terminal – he joined the end of a long, frustrated looking queue.

By the time Enjolras reached the front of the queue he’d managed to calm down, reason told him that the airline would be able to put him on the next flight, he’d still be back in Paris for tomorrow.

“Ah yes,” he clerk brought up the flight details on screen. “That flight has been cancelled.” He tapped away at the keyboard. “Could I take your contact details? The flight will be rescheduled as quickly as possible and we’ll contact you to let you know the new departure time.”

Enjolras handed over his phone number with a frown. He was quickly losing confidence.

“Any idea when that will be?”

The clerk tapped away again and shook his head. “Departures are looking backed up until tomorrow morning.”

“Tomorrow morning?” it was currently 8pm. What was he supposed to do until _tomorrow morning?_

The clerk ignored Enjolras’ gape and slid some vouchers across the desk. “These meal vouchers can be reclaimed at any airport restaurant.”

“Tomorrow morning?”

“At the earliest, I’m afraid sir.”

“What about a hotel?” He wasn’t going to spend the night sitting on a bench in the terminal foyer. He’d spent nights in departure lounges but they had coffee shops and armchairs. This side of the security gate had minimal facilities at best.

“The airline is not responsible for finding you a hotel. However, if you go to the Transport & Accommodation Desk they can help you. Then ring this number,” he scribbled something on a slip of paper and handed it to Enjolras. “You should be able to reclaim the cost from the airline.”

Enjolras nodded. He took the paper with the phone number and abandoned the vouchers.

=

“Nothing? Ah, come on,” Grantaire smiled, leaning against the desk and smiling at the clerk behind it. She tucked her short hair behind her ear and shook her head.

“I’m sorry; there aren’t many rooms left,”

Her English accent was adorable. Grantaire had insisted he could speak French, but she had insisted she practise her English.

There was queue forming behind them who clearly didn’t think much of Grantaire’s flirting. He couldn’t care less. 

“Even the cheap rooms? I don’t care how far away,”

She arched an eyebrow but nodded. “If you’re sure.”

Grantaire grinned.

There were four people working behind the Transport & Accommodation Desk, all frantically trying to help the crowd of customers find hotels or buses out of the city. Because the busses had spent all day stuck on the mountain (a fact Grantaire could most definitely attest to), there were hundreds of people unable to make their way out of the city. Moreover, they’d stopped taking bookings for coaches the following day, in case the same thing happened. Grantaire shuddered at the thought and suddenly felt grateful that this had happened at the end of his holiday, and not the beginning.

There were two computers shared between the four clerks, and his assistant was forced to wait until her colleague had finished, before she could amend Grantaire’s search to literally any bed in the city of Geneva.

There had to be something.

“There’s the Beau-Rivage, 1230?”

Grantaire didn’t know how many Swiss Francs there were to the pound, but it sounded like far too many.

“I don’t think so,” he shook his head with a laugh.

She hummed and bit her thumb nail, scrolling through the options her search had returned. Grantaire was about to lose hope. His best bet would probably be to find a bar and a hook up. He sure as hell wasn’t spending the night in the airport.

“Ah! The budget Ibis,”

“Sounds good,”

“94? It’s a twin room. The only one they have left.”

“What’s that in pounds?” Maths had never been Grantaire’s strong point

“Ah…sixty…seven? I think.”

“Perfect. Book it.” he slapped his hands on the desk and grinned.

She needed ID and a 4 CHF deposit. He gladly passed them over and scoured at the map she’d drawn him. It wasn’t particularly near the airport or the train station, but she assured him there was bus stop nearby – Les Esserts. Bus 23.

“Thank you so much! _Merci beaucoup_ ,”

He moved aside to sort out his bag, managing to bash his snowboard into the person waiting behind him.

“Sorry!” he exclaimed. He turned to apologise properly and stalled. The man was beautiful. All tall graceful lines with blond curls and jawline that looked like it had been carved by one of the greats. Grantaire gawped for a millisecond before he realised how odd that must look. Not that the man would have noticed. He’d closed his eyes and appeared to be counting to ten under his breath.

Grantaire bit back a smirk, apologised again – this time in French – and propped his against the counter with care. He bent down to open his carry bag and replace his passport in the inside pocket.

“What do you mean there are no rooms left?” the beautiful stranger asked in French, trying his hardest to sound calm.

Apart from a suite at the Beau-Rivage which was now going for 3130CHF there was nothing. Grantaire had booked the last reasonable room. He felt a little guilty.

Enjolras pressed his fingers to his temple and began muttering something in rapid French. Grantaire was fluent but rusty, he could only catch the odd, angry word.

“Nothing?”

“Sorry, monsieur,”

“Fine. Thanks for your help.” He moved away from the desk and stood vacantly, his trundley suitcase gripped in his hand. 

Grantaire didn’t know what possessed him to walk over and lightly touch the beautiful man on the shoulder. He would never understand how he introduced himself without a tremor in his voice, or how he found the words to offer they share his room.

“It’s a twin room.” he said added hastily, faltering now.

The man was staring at him blankly. Grantaire’s French wasn’t that rusty. The man must have been appalled by the offer. This had been a god-awful mistake. If the universe had any decency the ground would open up and swallow him.

“Wouldn’t that be weird?” the man asked. Gosh his voice was lovely.

“Yes, probably.” Grantaire grinned. “But it has to be better than sleeping here?”

The man glanced around and nodded.

“I promise I’m not a serial killer. But I do snore so…” Grantaire shrugged with a smile. He wasn’t sure why he was pushing this.

The man dipped his head and a smile crept over his lips. He was tall. He had about five inches over Grantaire, who at 5’10” wasn’t that short. Grantaire beamed up at him waiting for him to make his decision. He didn’t know why he wanted him to say yes. He had no ulterior motive, although the man was beautiful he was on ‘completely different plane of existence’ level out his league.

Sometimes Grantaire was just a sucker for helping people out. It was an urge he often resented of himself.

“Are you sure?”

“I wouldn’t have offered otherwise.”

The man nodded. “Alright. I must be crazy, but yes. I’m Enjolras.” He held out his hand for Grantaire to shake.

“Grantaire,” he replied, “but call me R,”

Enjolras seemed puzzled. “But you’re English?”

“I didn’t know my accent was so terrible,” he chuckled. “But yes. Sort of. My dad was French but I grew up in England.”

“Pleasure to meet you,” Enjolras replied switching to English. Grantaire didn’t think it was possible, but his voice sounded even lovelier in English.

“Likewise. Shall we?”

=

Enjolras followed Grantaire out of the airport, not entirely sure why. Combeferre would kill him if he knew Enjolras had agreed to share a hotel room with a perfect stranger. That he willingly boarded a bus and followed said stranger halfway across Geneva.

Enjolras had checked three times that they were waiting at the right bus stop and asked repeatedly what the name of the stop was that they were getting off at. He wasn’t too fond of travelling, and generally suffered from anxiety of missing the bus, train, plane, whatever, and then missing the correct stop or exit. Most of his friends thought it was hilarious, even Combeferre found it slightly amusing.

Grantaire had patiently answered every question and calmly repeated the name of the stop. He even handed over the piece of paper with the scribbled instructions. Enjolras soon learned that Grantaire was a very laissez-faire traveller. He maundered away from the stop, and went to investigate a poster tacked onto the bus shelter across the road from their stop, despite the fact that the bus was due any minute.

Enjolras tried to calm the panic that threatened to rise, taking a deep breath and reading the instructions once more. When the bus pulled round the corner Grantaire was still reading the poster. Enjolras shouted for him and he turned to blink, looking surprisingly like a deer in headlights, before he noticed the bus and jogged back with a lopsided grin.

Grantaire had been staying in France and didn’t have any Swiss francs on him, which meant Enjolras had to pay for the bus fare. It wouldn’t have been a problem, if the ticketing machine hadn’t been completely incomprehensible.

After a few moments of him pressing buttons to no avail, and trying to keep his balance on a rather unsteady bus, Grantaire sashayed over to help him. Enjolras felt his cheeks flushing as Grantaire fed the coins into the machine and produced two tickets in no time at all.

“Thank you,” Enjolras managed, taking his ticket rather sheepishly.

Grantaire shrugged with a small “no problem.”

They sat down in silence; the darkened streets of Geneva flashing passed the window. Enjolras was too tightly wound for small talk and Grantaire seemed in no hurry to break the silence.

When the name of their stop scrolled across the electronic sign Grantaire nudged Enjolras to break him from his reverie.

“This is us.”

It turned out there was a whole host of stranded travellers staying at their hotel and it took a while for everyone to get checked in. Grantaire nosied around the lobby whilst Enjolras waited patiently in line. He rifled through the leaflets on the welcome desk and poured through the notices tacked onto the wall; Enjolras watched, fascinated.

Grantaire had dark brown curls, almost black which sprung from his head in a soft haze. They’d been hidden under a blue knitted beanie which was now clenched in his hands. Hands that were knobbly, the knuckles reddened, with long fingers that deftly folded and unfolded the leaflets – even the ones which were double sided and folded like an IGN map, and always confused Enjolras. He never managed to fold them back together properly again, no matter how hard he tried.

Grantaire must have sensed Enjolras was staring because he turned and smiled, bringing a handful of leaflets with him.

“There’s an Italian down the street,” he said. “Hopefully it’ll still be open. Fancy checking it out once we’re checked in?”

He was still speaking French; even though Enjolras had made it clear he was perfectly comfortable conversing in English. His accent was imperfect but the odd inflections and were strangely endearing.

The receptionist, who actually appeared to be the hotel manager, smiled at them as he handed over the key, expressing his apologies that there were no double rooms left. Enjolras was a little too flustered to correct him; whilst Grantaire assured the man it was no trouble at all.

“Do you know if the Italian will still be open? And where we can find it?” he asked, gesturing to the flyer.

“Ah, yes. Most certainly. Out the doors and turn right, about half a mile. Tell them I sent you.”

“Thanks.”

Grantaire took a couple of slips of paper from a jar on the desk and picked up the key, promptly handing it over to Enjolras.

“Third floor.” Grantaire said, calling the lift and manoeuvring his enormous bag inside. Enjolras nodded mutely, his thoughts still occupied by the hotel manager's apology. It wasn’t odd that Grantaire hadn’t corrected him; explaining that they weren't in fact a couple, but a pair of stranded travellers sharing the last hotel room in the city was just unnecessary information. Why then, had Enjolras felt happy that Grantaire didn’t immediately shoot the idea down?

He glanced down at Grantaire who was playing with the zipper on his bag and nodding along to the cheesy elevator music. Enjolras didn’t really have a type, but if he did it definitely wasn’t Grantaire. Yet here he was, standing beside him in an elevator, about to go out to dinner. About to share a room.

=

The room wasn’t much. It was small, well fitted but in cheap sort of way. Grantaire understood now why it was called the ‘Budget’ Ibis. There was a sink in the corner, with a shower set into the wall beside it and a door that was hopefully the toilet. It reminded Grantaire of those hub rooms assigned to people in District 13. He voiced his opinion to Enjolras who shrugged blankly, clearly not au fait with pop culture. Grantaire hadn’t really expected him to be.

As promised there were two beds, but they were pushed so close together they might as well have been a double. The only thing that separated them was a half-moon crescent curving out from the headboard to shield the other bed from the reading lights. Grantaire dropped his bag on the bed closest to the window and sat down, testing the mattress. Thin, but comfortable; a hundred times better than sleeping curled up on the airport floor. He’d done that enough times to know better.

“I need the loo, but then we’ll go find some food, yeah? I’m starving.”

Enjolras nodded, back to being vacant. He’d barely said more than four sentences to Grantaire and had kept stoically silent on the bus ride over. Grantaire hoped he wasn’t regretting his decision.

The toilet was in a very small room, not dissimilar to something you’d find in a caravan, only with an actual flushing loo inside. The shower was going to be interesting though. Grantaire peered into it as he washed his hands. The shower door looked pretty see-through. He refrained from mentioning it to Enjolras just yet; he looked like he had enough on his mind.

“Dinner then?”

He stuffed his beanie back on his head and led the way outside.

The snow had stopped falling but a thin layer rested on the ground; crunching under Grantaire’s boots as he walked. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and tipped his head back relishing the feeling of being outside in fresh air.

Enjolras kept pace beside him, still quietly brooding over something.

“So why are you stranded?” Grantaire asked, his breath billowing before him as an icy cloud.

“My flight was cancelled.”

“Ah man, that sucks. I missed mine.” He scuffed his feet on the pavement and laughed at Enjolras’ horrified expression. “My coach was stuck up the mountain all day. Took us ten and a half hours to get from La Plagne. It only took us two on the way up.”

“La Plagne?”

“Ski resort. Funny thing is; we had hardly any snow last week. I was boarding on grass some of the time. Be careful what you wish for, eh?”

The area had seen 70cm of snow fall overnight, it’s what he’d been hoping fall all week. It was just a shame that it had to happen at the _end_ of the week.

“Where were you coming from?”

“Bern.” Enjolras stuffed his hands in his pockets and dipped his chin to try and hide as much of his neck in the popped collar of his jacket. “It was cheaper to fly from Geneva. It seemed like a good idea, at the time.”

“It’s not your fault the flight was cancelled. At least they’ll get you home for free, right?” the airline had made it clear that they were in no way responsible for Grantaire missing his flight so he’d had to shell out for a new ticket himself. His insurance might cover it, he supposed. But he wasn’t holding out a great deal of hope.

“Eventually.” Enjolras seemed annoyed and pulled out his phone to scowl at the screen.

“Has it been rescheduled?”

“No yet. I’m waiting for a call.” He gestured to his phone and stuffed it back into his pocket. “They said tomorrow morning at the earliest.”

“Could be worse,” Grantaire smiled. He balanced along the edge of the curb, arms thrown out to steady himself. “At least you’re flying back the right city. The lady in the queue behind me couldn’t get a flight to Bristol, so she’s going Liverpool instead. I don’t know how she thinks she’ll get home from here. At least I’m going to right city, though Luton’s a bit further out than I’d hoped for.”

“Where do you live?”

Grantaire hopped off the curb and turned around to face Enjolras, walking backwards for a spell. “In a shitty little flat in London. You?”

Enjolras smiled. “A not-so shitty apartment in Paris.”

“Right,” Grantaire laughed, appraising Enjolras. “You’re what, some corporate business man?” he’d noticed the plush Samsonite case, well-cut jacket and shiny shoes. Those weren’t the marks of a second rate classics student, temping behind a bar.

Enjolras seemed offended by Grantaire’s judgement. He glared at Grantaire for a beat before answering. “I’m a lawyer.”

Of course he was. No doubt some hot-shot associate, son of the CEO type. “So which poor souls have you been screwing over lately?”

Enjolras’ eyes narrowed and Grantaire smirked gleefully. It was so easy to wind this guy up.

“Actually,” he over pronounced, “I run a not-for profit law firm which provides legal assistance to those who otherwise couldn’t afford it.”

He looked proud of himself, so naturally Grantaire had to poke fun. “Ah, you’re a noble do-gooder.” He grinned and Enjolras ignored him. “So what were you doing in Bern? Last I checked it was a pretty corporate city. Sweet architecture though.”

Enjolras shook his head and for a moment Grantaire thought Enjolras wouldn’t answer, that he’d pushed too far. He was still expecting Enjolras to realise how foolish it was to have accompanied him and depart swiftly for the airport, or perhaps to that suite in the fancy hotel. But then Enjolras sighed and his features seemed to soften.

“It was a complete waste of time. I met with a bank to try and expand our line of credit. We’re struggling with revenue, I can’t…” he shook his head and breathed deeply. “I can’t pay all of my staff at the moment. We’re probably going to have to downsize even though we were just starting to do well. We won three cases last month, but there were technicalities and,” he trailed off and glanced at Grantaire who was actually eagerly paying attention. “Sorry. I’m rambling; you don’t want to hear about any of that.”

Grantaire shrugged. Enjolras’ voice was so captivating he’d have willingly listened to him read the phone book. “The bank turned you down, then?”

“Yes. I thought they’d be more understanding.”

“Why would a big Swiss bank care about a little Parisian not-for-profit?”

“I have family connections.”

There it was. Grantiare’s picture of him began to crumble. He was the same as the rest of them after all. “Of course you do.” Grantaire’s tone was less than polite.

Enjolras turned and blinked sharply. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he demanded.

“Nothing. It’s just…” he shrugged and hoped Enjolras would drop the subject, but he stopped and glared at Grantaire with an arched eyebrow. Grantaire found himself stopping too. He turned round with an exaggerated movement, and shook his head. “You’re obviously rich. I mean, _properly_ rich. You probably grew up in fancy boarding schools, went yachting, played polo – or whatever the French equivalent is. Your family has connections with banks in Switzerland, for Christ’s sake. I bet you have one of those private vaults filled with diamonds or something even more valuable.”

“I’m sorry that my background offends you,” Enjolras spat back. “But I’m trying to do some good. Putting my education to good use helping other people.”

“Sure. You’re trying to be all philanthropical _now_ , because it’s trendy or whatever. But you’ll realise it’s pointless, sell out to a corporate firm and that will be that.” he shrugged. It was always the same story. People forgot causes; people gave up trying to make the world a better place.

“I’m not doing it because it’s _trendy_ ,” Enjolras was getting furious. “I’m doing it because it’s right! Why should people get screwed over by companies or the legal system just because they don’t have a law degree and can’t afford the services of someone who has?”

“Right. And you’re clearly putting what money they do have to good use. With your tailored suit, fancy luggage, weekend trips to Switzerland.”

“What I do with my personal money is none of your concern and has absolutely nothing to do with the revenue of ABC Law. But for the record, since you’re so ready to judge me, it’s important to keep up appearances. People want to trust that we’re a capable law firm, despite what we charge.”

“Oh and expensive suits equals trustworthy, does it?” Grantaire snorted. “People don’t care what you look like; they care if you can help them, if they think you can win. And believe me that has nothing to do with how shiny your shoes are. And _for the record_ , if you were so concerned with paying your staff I’m sure you could invest some of your not insignificant personal wealth into running the company. If you really cared about succeeding that is, and if you’re not just waiting to jump ship to _Ripoff & Swindle Incorporated_.”

They stood glaring at each other, anger radiating off the pair of them and threatening to melt the snow.

“Where’s this restaurant then?” Enjolras broke the silence first. His voice surprisingly calm. “I thought you said it was just down the road.”

Grantaire was so taken about that he floundered for a moment, quite unable to answer. He coughed and nodded.

“Er, yeah. Half a mile. We’re almost there.”

Enjolras nodded curtly and set off at a brisk pace. Grantaire had to half jog to keep up with Enjolras’ long strides. The man’s legs went on forever.

They didn’t speak again until they found the restaurant. It was nestled in a small row of shops, the only establishment still open at the late hour. It was almost 11. Grantaire was desperately hoping they’d still be serving food.

He pulled the beanie off his head and kicked the snow from his shoes before entering, Enjolras had already stormed inside.

“Good evening,” the restaurant manager greeted them in English. He looked identical to the man who’d checked them into the hotel. If it weren’t for a slight beard Grantaire would have sworn they were the same person.

“Table for two?” Enjolras asked as Grantaire caught up to him.

“For dinner?” the manager asked.

“Yeah, please. We’re staying at the Ibis, you’re brother told us you’d still be open.” Grantaire chipped in, hazarding a guess which won him a smile.

The restaurant manager welcomed them inside to a table. “The kitchen’s closed, so it’ll have to pizzas only.” Pizzas which would evidentially be cooked in the wood fired pizza oven still blazing next to the bar.

“Pizzas are fine.”

“We close at 11.” He warned them.

“We’ll eat fast,” Grantaire promised.

They were handed a pair of menus which they scanned fast, ordering immediately. Enjolras was taking care not to meet Grantaire’s eyes. By the time their drinks were delivered Grantaire couldn’t stand it any longer.

“I’m sorry.” He said. “I can be an asshole sometimes. I shouldn’t have said any of that. You were right; it’s none of my business. I’m sorry.”

Enjolras finally looked at him. He didn’t smile, not exactly, but he wasn’t scowling anymore.

“You had a few valid points, underneath all of the supercilious commentary on my life.”

“Sorry. I’m a dick. I’ve been told I don’t have much of a brain to mouth filter, it only gets worse when I’m tired.”

Enjolras hummed and fidgeted with the corner of his napkin.

His phone buzzed and he jumped, fumbling to extract it from its leather pouch. Grantaire sipped his drink as he watched Enjolras’ face turn from expectation through disappointment before settling on a resigned acceptance.

“Flight’s been re-arranged.” He announced. “7pm tomorrow evening.”

“Could…be worse?” Grantaire tried, but he didn’t believe it himself. “That’s shitty isn’t it? Will you be late for anything?”

“I was supposed to be meeting with a client tomorrow, but Combeferre will have to manage without me.”

“Will they?”

Now Enjolras smiled. “Oh yes, he’ll probably be better off without me, actually.” He lifted his glass to his lips, pausing before he drank. “How about you then? What do you do?”

Grantaire huffed a laugh. “Well, I’m supposed to be finishing a PhD on Aeschylus’ lost plays – particularly concerning those on the Trojan War – but I’ve been writing it for years. It’s more like a novel than a thesis at this point.” He laughed and ran a hand through his hair. “And it’s a complete waste of time, which yes, makes me a complete hypocrite for criticising your career. I also bartend, to pay the rent.” He was always a little embarrassed when he explained what he did. Most people thought he was an idiot for wasting so many years, and so much money, on such a useless degree, then masters and now doctorate. After all, what exactly could one do with a doctorate in classics? Especially someone who hated teaching. He suffered through the mandatory seminars the department forced him to lead, but he couldn’t face the idea of lecturing full time. He didn’t have the temperament.

Enjolras, however, appeared fascinated. Grantaire didn’t understand why.

“You can read Ancient Greek, then?”

“It’d be pretty difficult to study if I didn’t.” he laughed, before supplying, “ἓν οἶδα ὅτι οὐδὲν οἶδα,” He raised his glass in a mock salute. His accent had always been terrible, but the great thing about speaking Ancient Greek was that usually no one knew how it was supposed to sound.

Enjolras’ face broke into a wide smile. Evidently he didn’t speak Greek.

“I studied Latin,” he said, “I don’t remember half of it now, excepting legal jargon, but I always wanted to study Greek.”

“Let me guess, your school thought it was a waste of time?”

Enjolras’ lip gave a twitch of a smirk.

Their pizzas were served and they tucked in hungrily. Now the argument had been forgotten conversation flowed freely between them. They almost slipped up a couple of times, verging too near contentious subjects which threatened to spark further altercations – they couldn’t even agree on pizza toppings for goodness sake (“How many vegetables do you need, is that a pizza or a salad?” / “Says the man with _anchovies_ on his.”). But as long as they stayed in neutral territory, they got along quite well. Grantaire thought it was quite fitting that they happened to be stranded in Switzerland.

They were the only people in the restaurant and it was quite clear that the staff were waiting on them to close. The bar top had been wiped down twice in an attempt for the waiter to look busy and the chef had given up; buttoning up his jacket and playing on his phone until they could lock up.

Grantaire felt like they should hurry, but he pushed the last few pieces of pizza around his plate, not wanting the meal to end. He was enjoying Enjolras’ company and he feared that once they retreated to the hotel the awkward nature of their situation would settle over them and Enjolras would clam up once again.

They couldn’t stall forever though and eventually they had to leave.

=

It had started snowing again by the time they stepped outside. Enjolras stuffed his hands into his pockets and glanced up at the sky. He shivered at the cold and wished he’d thought to wear a scarf. Beside him Grantaire squished his beanie back onto his head, hiding his lovely curls and making his head look oddly flat.

“So you’ve never read _The Hunger Games_?” Grantaire asked, continuing their conversation from before. “I think you’d like it – politically charged narrative, a young WOC trying to overthrow a corrupt government.”

Enjolras didn’t know what Grantaire was talking about, and he was fairly certain that the lead actress, who had been plastered over billboards around Paris for the past few years, was white.

“I don’t have much time for novels.” He was going to say ‘any more’, but when he thought about it, he’d never really read much fiction. Enjolras voiced this to Grantaire, who seemed to take it as a personal affront.

“But literature is the heartbeat of a civilisation!” he protested. “What about _Harry Potter_ then, you must have read that as a child,”

Enjolras shook his head.

“My _god_ ,” Grantaire gaped at him. “What’s wrong with you!” he was joking; at least Enjolras thought he was joking.

“As a student of the classics, I didn’t think you’d have much time for _Harry Potter_ ,”

“I have all the time in the world for _Harry Potter_!” Grantaire rebuffed. “They’re brilliant books, and packed full of classical allusions, actually. JK knew her stuff. I mean, the entire series is structured in ring-composition, with the first and last books mirroring each other, second and sixth, and so on. It’s a classical technique favoured by Homer, you see it in the Iliad – and…you haven’t read the books, so you have no idea what I’m talking about,” Grantaire trailed off, and grinned.

“It sounded good though,” Enjolras assured him. It was strange, beneath Grantaire’s colloquial language and tendency to leave ideas half finished, there lurked an astounding degree of intelligence. And although he often ended his thoughts with a shrugged ‘or something’, as if he wasn’t quite prepared to own his ideas or defend them, they were generally glimpses of genius. Enjolras had only known him for a matter of hours, but he was already fascinated.

They arrived at the hotel in no time at all, but rather than following Enjolras to the lift, Grantaire lingered in the lobby.

“I guess you want a shower?” he said. “I’ll wait in the bar.”

Enjolras had been planning to shower in the morning, but at Grantaire’s suggestion he suddenly realised how travel weary he felt. A shower was actually an appealing notion.

“Yes – but there’s no need to wait down here,”

Grantaire snorted. “You obviously didn’t notice the shower door, it looked pretty see-through.” Grantaire explained. “I’ll wait down here.”

He disappeared round the corner before Enjolras could say anything else on the matter.

Surely the shower door couldn’t be that see-through?

It was.

A thin sheet of very translucent glass blurred the inside of the shower cubicle but did little to actually obscure the view. Enjolras waved his arm behind it and suddenly felt relieved that Grantaire had offered to wait down stairs.

He showered quickly, using the little bottle of hotel shampoo – remembering to leave half for Grantaire – and dried himself off hurriedly with a towel, changing into a fresh pair of boxers and t-shirt before he was completely dry. He didn’t want to risk Grantaire walking in on him naked. It was only after he dug his laptop from his suitcase and settled onto his narrow bed that he realised he had the only room key.

Enjolras lost track of time, catching up with emails and reading through case files on his lap top (it turned out the slips of paper Grantaire had picked up from reception were wi-fi codes). When he was eventually disturbed by a knock on the door he nearly jumped out of his skin. He untangled himself from his laptop and strode across the room to open the door, only remembering after he’d opened it that he’d never bothered to put on any trousers. Grantaire stared at him for beat before breezing past him into the room. He kicked off his shoes and threw his jacket in the direction of his lone armchair in the corner of the room.

“Shower any good?” he asked, as he rummaged through his bag.

“Alright,” Enjolras sat back of the bed and lifted his laptop. “The tap isn’t labelled, though. Hot’s to the right.”

Grantaire pulled a small bundle from his bag, “good to know.”

He proceeded to drop the bundle on the floor in front of the shower, and before Enjolras realised what was about to happen, stripped and hopped behind the translucent door. Flustered, Enjolras dropped his eyes to his laptop and began to read the article with a furious concentration. The shower started and hot steam began to drift over the top of door before the vent had a chance to kick in. Enjolras spared a glance upwards and then found himself unable to look away.

Grantaire had tattoos.

Thick blurs of colour swirled up his arms and across his shoulder blades. Enjolras was transfixed, watching them shift and move as Grantaire scrubbed himself down.

And then he began to sing.

Enjolras’s laptop slid off his lap and he made no attempt to pull it back. He didn’t recognise the song, but Grantaire’s voice was compelling. Deep, warbling along behind the spray of the shower. It sounded a little raw, a little vulnerable. The melody got stuck in Enjolras’ head.

And then the water was shut off and Grantaire was stepping out of the shower and wrapping a towel round his waist in one fluid motion. He looked straight at Enjolras and made an expression Enjolras couldn’t decipher. Enjolras flushed and looked away, embarrassed to have been caught staring.

“Sorry, I should have warned you. I sing in the shower too.”

Too? Oh right, he’d said he snored. “That’s alright,” Enjolras said, trying to keep his voice sounding even. He reached for his laptop to distract himself before Grantaire started getting changed. Not that it mattered, there was a rustle of the towel and suddenly he was standing there in boxers and pulling a t-shirt over his head. Enjolras must have looked impressed because Grantaire smirked.

“Not used to getting changed under a towel? I don’t suppose you have much time for beaches either then?”

“Can’t say that I do.” Beaches had never really part of his childhood. Family holidays had been few and far between – his father was always too busy. Sometimes he’d gone away with Courfeyrac’s family, skiing or yes, yachting, but yachts had shower rooms; there was never a need to get changed under a towel.

Grantaire shook his head sadly. “What’ll I do with you?” he bundled his towel and threw it on the floor, padding across the room to fish his tooth brush from his bag. Enjolras watched his back for a spell, before remembering that was a creepy thing to do, and got stuck back into the article he was supposed to be reading. With Grantaire in the room though, Enjolras found he couldn’t concentrate. He shut the lid of his laptop and ran a hand through his hair. It had dried into a mess of fluffy curls which would have to be tamed in the morning. His only solace was that Grantaire’s curls would probably do the same.

“Soyerflineatsevehn?” Grantaire asked around his toothbrush.

“Sorry,” Enjolras laughed. “I didn’t catch that.”

Grantaire turned to spit his toothpaste in the sink. He gargled a mouthful of water and then dragged the back of his hand across his mouth.

“You’re flying at seven?”

Enjolras nodded and glanced at his phone. “Hopefully.”

“My flights at 12, so I need to be there at 10ish. I might aim for 9, though. There’s probably going to be a long queue.” He bounced onto his bed, which might as well have been the double side of Enjolras’. There was barely a hair’s width between the bed frames.

“I’ll aim to get there around 4.” Enjolras replied the unspoken fact hung between them; they’d leave separately. Enjolras was glad Grantaire didn’t want to talk about separating just yet either.

“Breakfast’s from 7.” Grantaire said. He twisted to lie on his back, damp curls splayed out on the mattress behind him. One leg dangled off the edge of the bed, with the other cocked at a right angle. He hadn’t bothered to move his bag from the bed yet.

Although he’d hardly unpacked, his stuff was everywhere. His snowboard propped by the window, shoes kicked haphazardly by the door, toothbrush on the sink, jacket slumped over the chair in the corner. By comparison Enjolras’ bag was stowed neatly at the foot of his bed, his shoes were lined up beside it and his coat had been hung on the peg. His bag of toiletries had been replaced as soon as he was finished with them.

It was yet another reason why they shouldn’t get along, Enjolras told himself. Another reason why it was good they’d part ways tomorrow and never see each other again.

So why did that thought terrify him?

=

Enjolras stood to turn off the lights as Grantaire moved his bag to the floor and untucked his sheets. He settled into bed and stared up at the ceiling, trying to remember how to breathe like a normal human being.

Everything felt louder now the lights had gone out; he became very aware of every breath and every rustle of the sheets as he moved. Enjolras’ bedframe creaked as he climbed onto it, the starched sheets scratched against one another as he pulled them up to cover his chest.

A thin crack of moonlight peeked under the blinds, casting a thin white line on the far wall. Grantaire squeezed his eyes shut and counted his breaths. In, 2, 3, 4, out, 2, 3, 4… his head felt a little cloudy from the hastily drunken shots he’d taken at the bar, but it wasn't enough to help him fall asleep quickly, just enough to help him cope. As the evening had progressed offering to share a room with the beautiful stranger had seemed more and more like a terrible idea. The thought of watching him shower had been too much to bear, but returning to find him in nothing but boxers and thin grey t-shirt, his hair fluffy and cheeks pink, had been just as bad. Grantaire had been right about his legs going on for miles. He wasn’t sure how Enjolras was even fitting into the bed; Grantaire’s shorter legs were just about dangling off the end.

He rolled on his side, grimacing against the way the sheets betrayed the movement, and drew his knees to his chest. He stared at the window and tried to ignore the other person lying next to him. Enjolras’ unsteady breathing made that impossible, but by the sounds of things he was just was aware as Grantaire was.

“Bonne nuit,” he muttered into the awkward stillness.

“Night,” came Enjolras’ reply, but it was clear neither of them were about to fall asleep any time soon.

Grantaire squeezed his eyes shut and began to draw upon the sleeping technique Jehan had taught him. Visualise a word and transform it into something new by changing only one letter, repeat until your mind lulls into a state of sleep. It was an oddly calming practise Grantaire had relied upon in the past. He started with 'calm', visualising the letters behind his eyes. He pictured scrawling the word across the front of his mind in his own loopy handwriting, like the Words and Pictures: Magic Pencil videos they’d watched in primary school. C-a-l-m. Balm. He re-wrote the word in his mind’s eye, b-a-l-m …Bald… Bold… Told… Toad… Road… Roam… Foam. He was beginning to drift when Enjolras’ voice broke the quiet.

“You think I’m stupid for wanting to change the world, don’t you?”

Grantaire blinked his eyes open and rolled over towards Enjolras. His face was obscured behind the half-moon crescent, but he could see that Enjolras was lying on his back, his hands resting on his stomach, playing the hem of the sheet.

“No.”

Enjolras made a noise that told Grantaire he didn’t believe him.

“It’s an admirable trait.” Grantaire yawned. “You’re stupid for thinking you might succeed.”

The sheets crinkled as Enjolras rolled over to face him. Their knees were almost touching.

“I am succeeding. What we do helps people.” When Grantaire didn’t respond, Enjolras continued, “Last week we stopped a woman from being unfairly evicted, two weeks before that I helped settled a cash flow dispute which means a small independent business owner won’t keep having to pay an extortionate income tax on money they haven’t yet received. We’re _making_ a _difference_.”

“Two cases. Two people.” Grantaire agreed. There was a mocking edge creeping into his voice that he couldn’t hold back. He was too tired, and too drunk for this conversation. He was bound to say something stupid. “There are, what, 2 million? People living in Paris. What about the rest of them?”

“If I had the resources, I would help them too.”

“But you don’t.” Grantaire retorted. “And corporate banks are never going to allow you to have them. No matter what connections you have, they are never willingly going to handover the means for their destruction.”

Enjolras stayed quiet for a minute. “Then I’ll pour my own resources into it. Like you said, it doesn’t make sense to keep savings back at the expense of helping others.”

“It doesn’t make sense to pour them into something that’s going to fail anyway.” Grantaire carried on with all the compassion of a steamroller. “Even if you had the resources you – and everyone else who wants to change the world, are still going to fail.”

“Enlighten me.” Enjolras’ voice was cold, chilling. It spurred Grantaire onwards. He wasn’t sure why. Perhaps it was the same something that had prompted Grantaire to approach Enjolras in the airport. A sense of something terrible lurking beneath the beautiful surface. Grantaire wanted to rip him apart and see what it was.

“What are you aims, exactly?” he was openly contemptuous now. The partition was hiding their faces, the darkness was shielding them. Consequences were a forgotten outcome of this conversation.

“To provide legal support to those who otherwise couldn’t afford it.”

“Which people?”

“As many as I can.”

“And that’s why you’ll never be successful. You’d help every single person in France if you could.”

Enjolras huffed. Of course he would.

“And to do that you’d need enormous resources, offices all over the country, an intricate management system. You’d become corrupted and lose the ability to provide the immediate help you’re aiming to now.” He was clipped. To the point, almost sneering.

“I wouldn’t let that happen.”

“You wouldn’t be able to stop it!” why could people never see that? “You’d become the monopolising entity you were supposed to be fighting.”

“There are ways of running businesses without becoming corrupt.”

“Oh really? Then show them to me, please.”

Enjolras began to spout of names of companies Grantaire had never heard of, it was enough to prove his point.

“Those might work - on a _small_ scale. You can achieve anything on a small enough scale - but the world’s not small. Paris isn’t small.” He paused and took a breath to steady himself.

Enjolras didn’t respond. Grantaire hoped that meant the conversation was over. He twisted on to his back and crooked a knee. It hit the beam of moonlight that crept under the blind, catching silver in the crease of the sheet. He lifted a hand and let the light dance over his fingers.

“I taught a module on utopias last year,” he said to the stillness. It was one of the few seminars he actually enjoyed leading. His voice was soft again; he didn’t want to leave things on such an irritable note. “We had some pretty interesting discussions. Everyone’s general consensus was that utopias could exist, on a small enough scale. But as soon as you try to implement them on any large, workable model, they fell apart. The larger the community the more room for corruption. The more certain they seemed to fail. Do you know where the word comes from?” he said, rolling back to face Enjolras. He moved his foot tentatively towards the gap between their beds. His toes nudged into the crevice. “Most people think it’s a mix of the Greek εὖ, good, and τόπος, place. But it can also be read as οὐ, which means ‘not’. Literally, no-place. A non-existent society. Because you put too many people together and we corrupt things. It’s human nature; we’re inherently corrupt.”

There was a beat of stillness. The pipes hummed and the radiator clacked.

“You can’t believe that.”

“It’s sad but true.” Grantaire said. It was written repeatedly throughout history, documented in literature from cultures all over the world. It was an unavoidable truth. “We look out for ourselves, our family, for the world as it immediately affects us. But beyond that? Most of us just don’t care.”

“I care.” Enjolras said firmly, as if that was all that mattered. And in that room, for that moment, Grantaire supposed it was all that did.

He reached out into the darkness and squeezed Enjolras’ hand. “I know.”

=

Enjolras woke early, too early in fact. It was still dark outside, the winter sun still a few hours away from rising. He yawned against the back of his hand and cast his eyes about him to get his bearings in the strange room.

Next to him Grantaire was snoring. His arms and legs were thrown star-fish style across the bed and his face was squished against the pillow. His shirt had risen up in the night and Enjolras could see the tattoos that swirled across his back. He gave a small smile and extracted himself from his sheets, padding across the room towards the toilet, leaving Grantaire to sleep.

He washed his hands in the sink and gulped down a few mouthfuls of water, already desperate for caffeine. There were no tea or coffee facilities in the room - it was a budget hotel after all - but he thought he remembered seeing a vending machine in the lobby. Enjolras pulled a pair of jeans over his boxers, jumping slightly to wriggle into them. He spared a cursory glance in the mirror at the state of his hair – hopelessly ruffled with curls flying everywhere. Sweeping it back off his forehead he decided that would have to do. He remembered to swipe the room key from the ledge by the door and crept out of the room to slope down the hallway to the lifts.

The lobby was deserted, the reception desk empty and the bar area desolate. He could hear a quiet chaos in the kitchen but saw no evidence of activity. Outside the world was tinged blue from the glass and the slow approaching dawn. He yawned again and stared out of the window, only then realising how far out from the centre of Geneva they were. The blue-grey streets were empty and snow covered, inspiring a feeling of solitude and isolation. Standing dazed for a moment he peered through the glass. The cool tile was cold against his bare feet. He watched a lone bird circle the sky, a black spec silhouetted against the blank expanse of cloud, eventually disappearing out of sight. What was he doing down here? He took a moment to remember he needed coffee. And probably to go back to sleep. But once he’d woken he never liked getting back into bed. No matter how early that might be. It felt unproductive, wasteful.

He fed some coins in the machine and ordered two black coffees. There were little pots of UHT cream and sugar on a tall table beside it which he filled his pockets with as the machine filled the plastic cups. On a whim he ordered a tea, too. English breakfast. That would probably be right. The English were all about their tea; he supposed Grantaire would the same.

Grouping the cups together in a triangle formation he managed to lift the three of them, calling the elevator with his elbow. When he reached the room, though, he encountered a problem and was forced to place the cups of the floor as he fished the key from his pocket and fed it into the door.

Grantaire was still fast asleep when Enjolras entered, key card clenched between his teeth. He set the cups down on the window sill and emptied the multitude of creamers and sugars from his jeans. He took his own coffee black, but who knew what Grantaire would like.

It was getting on for half six by the time Enjolras dropped into the arm chair and took a much needed drink of coffee. He opened the news app on his phone and began reading through the morning headlines, Grantaire’s snores providing a surprisingly pleasant soundtrack. He was so used to sitting at his kitchen table and reading alone that he found presence of another person – no matter how zonked out he might currently be – was an odd comfort. Enjolras settled back into the chair and lost himself in the world affairs. When he began to feel a little chilly he absently reached the jacket slumped beside him, not registering that he was wrapping himself in Grantaire’s hoodie.

Even by the time finished his coffee, and caught up on the news, Grantaire was still sleeping soundly. Enjolras checked the time. Five off seven. If Grantaire wanted to be at the airport by nine that meant leaving the hotel by half eight, at the absolute latest. If he wanted breakfast, to pack, and possibly to again shower… Enjolras wondered if he should wake him up. He couldn’t remember if Grantaire had even bothered to set an alarm.

He switched to checking emails, reaching for the second coffee, which although nearly cold was still refreshing, and vowed to give Grantaire another five minutes.

Enjolras was just about to navigate the awkward waters of trying to wake up Grantaire, who looked like he could sleep through just about anything and probably wouldn’t take kindly to being unduly awoken… when a loud piercing screech came from Grantaire’s phone.

He scrambled awake, hands scrabbling to find his phone was which plugged into the wall on charge. Without looking at the screen he managed to silence the awful noise and slumped back into the pillows. Enjolras began to fear that he’d fallen back to sleep, when Grantaire gave a grunt and pushed himself upright. He eyes were barely open, his hair matted to his forehead and his jaw was still slack with sleep.

“Morning,” he grumbled in English, his voice groggy.

“Good morning.” Enjolras replied in kind.

“Too early,” Grantaire muttered, still speaking English and plodding to the sink with his eyes still mostly closed. Enjolras watched as Grantaire splashed a handful of water in his face and scrubbed at his eyes. He caught Enjolras’ reflection in the mirror and managed a very weak smile. “Why are you up? You’re flight isn’t until much later.”

Enjolras shrugged. Grantaire had switched back to French, and Enjolras found himself missing the gruff London twang. His French was almost perfect, but his accent was bland. He remembered Grantaire’s shower singing, the deep vulnerability; why hadn’t they been speaking English this whole time?

“Ugh, you’re one of those morning people, aren’t you?” Grantaire said it like it was the most awful thing in the world, which made Enjolras smile.

He locked his phone and placed it on the window sill, contemplating whether to reply in French, or force the conversation back to English. “I got you a tea – _il pourrait être froid maintenant…_ ” he faltered half way through.

Apparently Grantaire didn’t care that the tea might be cold. Living up to the stereotype, Grantaire’s eyes widened and he crossed the room eagerly. He filled it with two capsules of milk and three sugars (despite it being a very small plastic cup) and drained it in one go.

He sighed a grateful, ‘merci', before scrumpling the cup in his hand and throwing it across the room into the bin. “I was going to get one last night, but the machine only took swiss francs.”

“You should have asked,”

Grantaire shrugged the offer away and sat on the bed with a thump. He blinked up at Enjolras and then pulled a very odd expression; part frown, part smile. Enjolras couldn’t understand, his hair wasn’t that messy, certainly not compared to Grantaire’s.

“Is that my hoodie?” he asked with a giant lopsided grin.

With a start, Enjolras looked down and saw that he was in fact wearing Grantaire’s bottle green jumper. His eyes widened sheepishly as Grantaire’s grin grew.

“Suits you,” he said.

=

“So we should probably get breakfast, yeah?” Grantaire still wasn’t fully awake. The tea had helped, but he’d need another gallon or three before he was functioning properly. That fact that Enjolras was sitting there, blasé, in his hoodie wasn’t helping matters. It felt like a strange dream.

Enjolras made no move the change, so Grantaire pulled a different sweater from the bottom of his bag, this one mottled grey with a white zip. The sleeve had become chewed, either via a washing machine or his irrepressible urge to worry at the hem, but it didn’t stop it from being one of the most comfortable articles of clothing he owned. He slipped on a pair of dark jeans over last night’s boxers and stomped his bare feet into his boots. Socks were a problem that could be sorted after larger quantities of tea were found. He unplugged his phone and saw that it was gone seven, breakfast would be being served.

He didn’t know why Enjolras had woken up so early, but he was glad he didn’t have to navigate the breakfast buffet alone. They were always slightly daunting things. It was never clear which side you supposed to start from, or how much it was reasonable to take; so he always ended up piling his plate far too full and then bumping into to someone coming the other way.

There were a few other parties already in the dining hall when they arrived, and a couple of other people followed in behind them. Enjolras made a bee-line for the drinks whilst Grantaire picked up two plates and began to stack them high with toast and fruit. Compared to the dangers of navigating conversations the previous evening, breakfast proved to be a wonderfully simple, and strangely domestic affair. Perhaps it because they were both too sleepy to argue, and when they weren’t arguing they just worked. Grantaire didn’t let himself dwell too long on that dangerous thought.

They took a seat by the window, orange modern-retro chairs against a white table. A small green vase with a single orange carnation was set next to the salt and pepper shakers. Enjolras had remembered that Grantaire took his tea with lots of milk and sugar, and Grantaire had apparently stumbled onto Enjolras’ favourite flavour of jam – quite by accident.

“It’s a shame my flight’s so early,” Grantaire said, buttering a piece of toast. “We could have gone sight-seeing or something. I’ve never been in Geneva long enough to actually see it. The waterfront’s supposed to be pretty.”

“Me neither.”

Grantaire crunched down on his toast. “So what do you think you’ll do today?”

Enjolras shrugged.

“If you say ‘work’, I think I might have to kick you.”

“Well, I do have a lot of emails to catch up with -”

Grantaire nudged him good naturedly under the table.

“- and I am supposed to be at work today,” Enjolras smiled and kicked Grantaire back for good nature.

“You are allowed to enjoy yourself, you know,” Grantaire ribbed him. “What’s the point of trying to save the world if you never let yourself enjoy it?”

Grantaire lifted his mug of tea and glanced out of the window, missing the startled look Enjolras shot him. When he turned his gaze back to Enjolras, he was staring solemnly at his mug of coffee. His long fingers were wrapped around the porcelain mug as steam gently coiled from it, buffeted by Enjolras’ breathing. His hair was fluffy and swept back from his forehead in a tangle of bright blonde curls. Sunlight dusted his cheekbone and danced around the curve of his jaw. When he blinked pale eyelashes brushed his cheeks. Grantaire knew he shouldn’t be staring, but he wanted to soak it up before he left. People that beautiful didn’t exist in real life, especially not people with a startling intelligence and ideals – although misguided – to match. He knew he was sitting across from someone extraordinary, and wasn’t looking forward to returning to a life of dull reality.

Breakfast was over too quickly, and Grantaire was packing his things before he knew it. He’d only been in the room a matter hours, how had his things spread themselves everywhere? He fished a stray shoe from under the bed and collected up his handful of toiletries.

“I’m going to need that back,” he told Enjolras, indicating to the green hoodie he was still wearing.

Enjolras glanced down, surprised. “Right, sorry.”

Enjolras unzipped it and shrugged it from his shoulders, leaving Grantaire a little breathless. It wasn’t fair for someone to look like he did and act so nonchalantly about it. It was definitely a good thing Grantaire was leaving; it was becoming difficult to ignore his rapidly developing feelings. Grantaire took the hoodie and stuffed it into his bag, zipping it closed with an air of finality.

“Well,” he said. He slung his bag over his shoulder and picked up his snowboard. The Taxi was waiting downstairs. “It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” He stuck out his hand for Enjolras to shake. Which he did, a little amused.

“Thank you for the room.”

“You’re welcome. If you’re ever stranded in London - let me know,”

“I will,”

“Yeah,” Grantaire smiled, and then faltered. “Good luck saving the world.” He forced a grin and stepped out of the room, leaving before he did something stupid like kiss Enjolras goodbye.

“Good luck with your thesis,” Enjolras replied, speaking English suddenly. “Goodbye, Grantaire.”

Grantaire’s heart thrummed. He swallowed the lump into his throat and turned to wave, savouring one last look before he stepped around the corner.

“ _Au revoir_ , Enjolras.”

=

Enjolras watched Grantaire leave with a sad smile on his face. Once he heard the ding of the lift, he pushed the door closed and padded across the room to the beds. He straightened the sheets on Grantaire’s side and glanced around the small room. It felt empty without Grantaire’s clutter, lonely even.

He picked up his laptop and opened the lid, hitting the space bar a few times to shock it back into life. The screen brightened to display his opened inbox. 23 unread emails were waiting for him, but he didn’t feel like reading any of them. He was all of a sudden, very aware that Grantaire was gone.

Gone.

And Enjolras wasn’t ever going to see him again. They hadn’t even swapped numbers.

Panic settled in Enjolras’ gut. He slammed his laptop closed and pushed it onto the mattress beside him. He grabbed his jacket and swiped the room key, hurtling along the corridor towards the lifts. He jabbed the button repeatedly until the lift dinged open and tapped his foot impatiently as it crawled slowly towards the ground floor.

He didn’t expect Grantaire would still be there, but it was upsetting all the same to find him gone. Enjolras stood vacantly in the lobby, staring at the empty driveway with a heavy heart.

“Can I help you, sir?” the receptionist asked him.

Enjolras turned and blinked at her helpful smile. He shook his head and inhaled sharply through his nose. He headed to the vending machine and bought a coffee he had no intention of drinking, returning to his room with a glum feeling.

It was for the best. They hadn’t agreed on anything.

Enjolras placed the coffee on the window sill and stared out over the grey-skied outskirts of Geneva. If that was true, why did he feel so miserable?

His phone alerted him to a new message. He hastened to retrieve it, stupidly hoping that Grantaire had stolen his number during the night. He hated to admit that he was a little disappointed to see a message from Courfeyrac.

_**Courf:** Mme. Bougon’s in today and only wants to speak with you. Okay for a telecon in 20mins?_

Enjolras tapped back an affirmative and sunk down onto the mattress. He scrolled through his phone looking for an unexplained contact number, but there were no Grantaire’s or R’s, nor any other numbers he didn’t recognise. He supposed it was foolish to have hoped otherwise. They’d argued ceaselessly and Grantaire had criticised everything Enjolras believed. But he’d also challenged who Enjolras thought he was…and made him question things in a new light.

His phone buzzed again as Courfeyrac confirmed the meeting and sent across the conference number. Enjolras wiped the useless thoughts from his mind and stood up. He threw on a button-down over his t-shit and cleared the window sill to create a makeshift desk.

Once the telecom was done and Mme. Bougon assuaged for the time being, Enjolras tried to distract himself with work. But Grantaire’s scent still lingered in the bed sheets and it felt too quiet without his humming, muttering or snoring.

Eventually Enjolras couldn’t stand it any longer. He took a quick shower and changed into fresh clothes, packing up his small suitcase and checking out.

He had hours before his flight, but suddenly felt overcome with a desire to see the lake.

It was strange, walking through the Jardin Anglais without a clear destination in mind, watching the sunlight fall, dappled, through the trees, and hearing the pleasant sounds of the water cascading from the fountains. Boats clanked against their moorings in the lake and water lapped against the wharf. He realised, as he strolled down the lakeside promenade with the sun warming his face, that he hadn’t actually taken a day off months. Years even. Enjolras felt a little loathe to admit it, but Grantaire was right. What was the point in working so hard for the good of the world, if you never stopped to enjoy it?

He found a waterfront café and ate lunch peacefully, keeping his laptop in his bag and his emails firmly closed. He snapped a picture to show Courfeyrac, who would never believe him otherwise, and tried to ignore the desire to send the picture to Grantaire too.

=

Grantaire queued through the airport on autopilot. He processed his snowboard through the extra and overweight baggage area, and emptied his pockets into a little tray to pass through security. The queues had been out the door when Grantaire arrived at the airport, but they’d been handled with true Swiss efficiency and he found himself with a couple of hours to wait before his flight departed.

He stuffed his headphones in his ears and wandered through the duty free, admiring the expensive watches and fancy chocolates; circulating passed the same girl handing out free samples more often than was probably polite. He could only browse for so long before succumbing to the temptation of buying something; so treated himself to a bottle of Bushmills and enjoyed an Irish coffee gazing out across the airfield. The snow-capped mountains stood bold against the horizon, fluffy grey clouds clustered around the peaks. His mind began to wander, and he found himself wondering what Enjolras had ended up doing with his day, before turning his music up to drown out such a dangerous thought.

When his flight was eventually called, Grantaire joined yet another queue to board the plane. The flight crew, who had been looking forward to a half empty flight, were clearly taken aback by the surge of new passengers and behaved in a flustered, fraught manner for the entire hour and thirty minute flight. Unsurprisingly, the plane was mostly filled with skiers and boarders, all sporting large ski coats which refused to fit into the overhead lockers, and some sporting freshly broken bones. Grantaire found himself squished into a window seat beside a man in a sling and the man’s clearly unimpressed wife. They didn’t say a word to each other the entire flight.

Grantaire twisted as far away from the awkward tension as the narrow seats would allow him to, and gazed out of the small oval window; admiring the view below. The air above the clouds always seemed ethereal. There was something captivating about the way thick pillars of water vapour were transformed into fluffy monuments that stretched on as far as they eye could see. As Grantaire gazed out across the plains of the clouds tops he understood how ancient cultures had pictured gods living amongst them; and that was without this airborne view. He snapped a few pictures on his phone, and then sank back into his seat, flicking through the rest of the photos he’d taken during the weeks. Views from the top of Roche de Mio, Vin Chaud half way up Les Verdons, après-ski drinks with the group of free skiers he’d picked up at the snow park. He scrolled right through to recent photos of the clouds and froze. He had no photos of Enjolras.

No pictures, no phone number. Nothing. No physical evidence to prove that he’d been anything more than a figment of Grantaire’s imagination. Except, of course, that his imagination would never have been capable of creating such an intricate, intelligent, idealist or beautiful hallucination.

Grantaire began to panic. He’d known of course that their encounter would be brief and fleeting, but he’d failed to appreciate how final their goodbye would be. He didn’t even know Enjolras’ full name. A painful sort of anxiety constricted his chest and his mind began to reel. He’d made some stupid mistakes in his life, decisions or inactions which gnawed at him whenever he let his mind wander too far; and he knew then that not asking Enjolras for a phone number, not daring to ask for something more, was going to plague him for eternity.

=

Enjolras made it to the airside coffee shop before the urge to check his emails became unbearable. Behind him the bank of windows looked out over the darkened airfield but beyond the reflection of the bright lights in the departure lounge, only the occasion orange blips of light from plane tip wings, or moveable stair cases could be seen. He seated himself at a small round table and tapped in the passcode for his phone, blowing on his coffee to cool it down whilst he waited for his emails to sync.

He skimmed through them, reading the headlines of the ones he’d been copied in to, and approving the necessary requests for overtime and expense receipts. The cash flow problem was lingering at the back of his mind, but Enjolras thought he’d figured out a plan. He’d mulled through the options whilst queueing through security, and the way forward seemed obvious. Once the courts released the money they were owed, the company would have more than enough to stay afloat; they just needed something to tide them over.

Enjolras had stopped paying himself a wage months ago, it wasn’t like he needed the money, but he’d come to realise that wasn’t enough. His grand notions of the company surviving on its own merits were idealistic and misplaced. Grantaire was right, if Enjolras was serious about success then he was going to have to foot the bill himself. He wouldn’t be able to afford more than a few months; salaries, office space and the overheads which came with it weren’t cheap, but a few months should be enough. It would have to be.

He pulled his laptop out of his bag an opened up an excel spreadsheet, plugging the numbers and calculating if it would work. Once he was satisfied that it might he pinged it over to Bossuet in accounts to verify. If this didn’t work he could always re-mortgage his apartment, or downsize.

Feeling more hopeful then he had in months, Enjolras leant back in his seat and lifted his coffee cup to his lips. He found himself humming along the tune which had been stuck in his head all morning, realising with a jolt that it was the tune Grantaire had been signing in the shower. He let his eyes pan over the crowds of people milling around the airport and wondered what Grantaire was up to. If he’d made it home okay, hoping that his journey had been smooth, and wondering what might await him in his ‘shitty little flat in London’. Did he have roommates, pets, perhaps a boyfriend? Enjolras’ chest tightened at the notion; which was entirely ridiculous because there was no way he was ever going to see Grantaire again. Besides, Enjolras had always thought the notion of boyfriends or any romantic partner to be overrated. Enjolras had seen Courfeyrac suffer through too many borken hearts in their younger years, and the way he acted with Combeferre now was downright sickening at times. Enjolras had never met anyone worthy of such heartache or drama. Until, perhaps... Enjolras closed his eyes and saw Grantaire illuminated by the street lights, smiling as he twirled in the snow. He remembered the squeeze of his hand as they fell as sleep, and the careful nonchalance with which Grantaire had challenged Enjorlas' entire worldview. Until perhaps Grantaire. 

Oh, for goodness sake. He scolded himself. He was becoming sappier than Courfeyrac. He ordered another coffee and a blueberry muffin and scrolled through the news app on his phone to keep himself distracted. 

So distracted was he, that Enjolras ended stayed in the coffee shop until his flight was called to board. Which he then discovered to have been a terrible idea. Gate D24 was about as far away from the departure lounge as physically possible. Before long he was running down the twisting white corridors, his suitcase trundling frantically behind him, struggling to keep up. He’d thought that the '15 minute walking distance’ had been an exaggeration based on elderly, or toddler, walking speeds. Clearly it wasn’t.

He was the last the join the queue, not that there was much of one by the time he reached the gate, just about managing to sweep his hair from his forehead and take a few calming breaths before being asked to present his passport to the air hostess on duty. Red faced and still slightly breathless, he manoeuvred down the narrow aisle, ducking so that he didn’t hit his head on the low ceiling of the cabin. Thankfully the airline had honoured the original seating plan and Enjolras found himself near the emergency exit with space to stretch out his long legs. He tucked slotted his suitcase into the last spot in the overhead locker and stowed his laptop bag under his seat. Fixing his seatbelt as the cabin crew locked the doors.

That had been cutting it close. Too close. He breathed deeply and slowly, trying to calm his accelerated heartbeat, and trying not to fret. Ordinarily he would have preferred to have been the first in the queue, allowing him time to check he was on the right flight, in the right seat, that he hadn’t forgotten anything. He quickly patted his pockets to make sure his phone, passport and wallet were all present and correct.

He shot off a quick message to Combeferre confirming his ETA, before switching it to airplane mode and settling back in his seat to watch the safety demonstration.

When they landed in Paris it was raining. Even in the short walk down the plane steps to the waiting bus had them drenched. Enjolras squashed himself into a corner of the overcrowded shuttle, keeping his suitcase clamped securely between his feet and grabbing a hold of a pole to keep himself from falling over. He fished his phone from his pocket to find a message from Combeferre and three from Courfeyrac.

_**Ferre:** Great. We’ll be there to pick you up x _

**Courf:** you have to tell us all about it!

 **Courf:** Did you have to sleep on the airport floor?

 **Courf:** Did you buy us any souvenirs?

The bus came to a sudden stop, sending everyone staggering forwards a few places. Someone cursed and a baby began to cry. Enjolras shoved his phone back in his pocket and picked up his suitcase, shuffling towards the exit behind everyone else.

What was he going to tell them? Explaining Grantaire was just going to be too complicated, and painful. That chapter was closed, and as much as Enjolras wished it might be different, the truth was he was never going to see Grantaire again. Perhaps it would just be easier to say he managed to find the last hotel room in Geneva and leave it at that.

=

Grantaire transferred his weight from foot to foot, fidgeting with his watch strap and ignoring the anxious thoughts that circled relentlessly through his mind. This hadn’t been a terrible idea, he told himself unconvincingly…well, he reasoned, even if it had it was too late now.

He checked his watch again and let out deep exhale. Any minute now.

The doors to arrivals opened and a few passengers hurried through with their small carry-on bags, and there behind them, tall and breath-taking as ever; Enjolras.

Enjolras paused and scanned the crowd looking for someone, before his eyes landed on Grantaire.

Grantaire smiled weakly and held up his hand in a half wave. His heart was thudding in his chest, adrenaline building up, ready for him to flee if this all went south.

Enjolras stepped forward and then hesitated, unsure. This had been a terrible idea, Grantaire knew it. Why did he ever think this was a good thing to do? But then Enjolras carried on towards him.

“Hi,” Grantaire said, sheepish and really hoping he hadn’t weirded Enjolras out. But as Enjolras came closer realised he wasn't angry, if anything he looked relieved. 

Enjolras dropped the handle of his suitcase and closed the space between them, dipping his head and giving Grantaire the kiss he hadn’t dared to hope for. Grantaire sank against Enjolras, his hands moved to clutch at the fabric of Enjolras’ coat, ignoring that it was slightly damp, and his pushed up on his tip-toes to match the force and intensity of the kiss.

“How?” Enjolras asked, in English as he pulled away breathless.

Grantaire rocked back onto the balls of his feet and grinned up at Enjolras. “Did you know the Eurostar gets you to Paris in 2 hours 20 minutes?”

“Why?” Enjolras looked dazed and happy and Grantaire’s heart thrummed to think that he was the cause.

He’d been sitting on train back from Luton airport when the announcer had called London St. Pancras as the next stop. Without thinking Grantaire had left the train and was crossing towards the Eurostar departures. If he’d had time to stop and think he might have overthought the decision and turned around to head home. But there was no queue at the ticket office and a train was pulling in behind him. Before he knew what he was doing, Grantaire was sitting on the train with his snowboard stowed in the luggage rack and London was receding behind him at 200mph.

“I wanted to see you again.” He said honestly. With nothing more than a flight time and a last name, Grantaire knew his only chance was catching up with Enjolras at the airport. What he hadn’t factored in was just how many airports there were in Paris. It had taken him all afternoon to find the right one. "I couldn't let that be all there was." Grantaire titled his head back to stare up at Enjolras, so thankful for the second burst of courage which had propelled him here. 

Enjolras pulled Grantaire into another kiss, wrapping his fingers in Grantaire’s hair which was just as soft as he’d imagined, and humming contentedly against his mouth.

“Thank you.” He whispered against the corner of Grantaire’s lips. “I went to see the lake,” Enjolras told him, switching to French. He pulled back slightly and stared down into Grantaire’s eyes, using his thumb to wipe a stray curl from Grantaire’s forehead.

“You did?” Grantaire’s face lit up. “And?”

“It was beautiful. You were right.”

“Sorry, what was that? I was right?” Grantaire gloated, because he was still an asshole no matter how in love he was. And he was he realised now, letting the feeling wash over him with abandon. He was so in love with Enjolras.

“About some things,” Enjolras clarified with a smile. “We should probably go and greet my friends.” He added with a nervous edge to his voice.

Grantaire glanced over his shoulder and realised they were being watched by a shorter man with an abundance of brown curls and a taller, dark skinned man with black rimmed glasses. The latter was pulling an amused, smug expression whilst the former looked like he was using all of his energy not to bounce up and down on the spot. Although they were keeping a respectable distance the shorter man looked like he might explode if Enjolras didn’t acknowledge them soon.

"Did you tell them about yesterday?" Grantaire asked.

"Not entirely,"  
"Then this should be an interesting converstion." Grantaire laughed. “What are you going to tell them?” 

“I’m not sure,” Enjolras glanced back at Grantaire, looking nervous once again. “How long can you stay?”

Grantaire hadn’t thought that far. He’d just been hoping and praying that Enjolras didn’t throw him out of the airport or have him arrested for stalking. 

“As long as you like.” Grantaire answered with a brazen honesty; it seemed to have worked for him so far, and it was true. Grantaire had no real ties to London. His dissertation could be finished from anywhere and Jehan already paid most of their rent as it was (in fact Jehan would probably be happy to see the back of Grantaire's messy habbits). If Enjolras wanted him to, and providing they didn't kill each other in the process, Grantaire would happily stay forever. 

Enjolras kissed him again, quick and chaste this time before taking Grantaire’s hand in his and leading him over to his friends.

“There’s a story here, I know it.” Combeferre said with a soft smile holding his hand out to shake Grantaire’s and introduce himself.

“A great one,” Grantaire turned to grin at Enjolras, hoping this would be the first of many retellings. When Enjolras gave his hand a squeeze and smiled at Grantaire like he hung the moon; he knew it would be.

**Author's Note:**

> (Please excuse - or correct if necessary - my poor attempts at french!)
> 
> This was inspired by my nightmare journey home from skiing last year, but sadly I didn't meet any hot French boys to make up for spending 10 hours in a car stuck half way down a mountain :(
> 
> I'm on [Tumblr](http://trenchcoatsandtimetravel.tumblr.com/), come and say hi :)


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